"How did you come to die?,"
the shades ask, seeing no wound.
My answer will define my fate,
though I know not how.
I was crossing the wastes,
the wind lashing my face,
ripping at my beard,
heavy with ice.
And then, impossibly,
I caught a scent of roses,
and followed its lead,
away from my path.
To a blooming hedge I came.
Can there be flowers in winter?
Can green things live in the howling gale?
What can it mean?
In haste, I climbed,
On cresting the top,
I looked upon her,
then she looked back.
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1 comment:
I'm delighted that you liked this. I thought my crack to Kirby about the Goddess looking back needed to be worked out to its conclusion.
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